My Swing Perch

My Spring Perch My swing sits in the northwest corner of my house’s extended concrete foundation, perhaps a yard away from the little trench canal that separates our property from our neighbor’s. The canal runs between the two houses and is lined with diminutive but well-yielding pomegranate trees. A small white plank, more piece of wood than board, connects the two properties, as it probably has for many years. The swing itself consists of a painted white iron frame supporting nine pieces of tired and flaking wood that make up a seat and seat back. Its size corresponds to that of a true love seat: too big for one person but too cramped for all but the most intimate pair. Lacking a partner myself, I usually spread out facing the southward sun. Frankly it’s a rather uncomfortable seat, with a metal ridge that juts out into your back and iron side poles that leave no position unpunished. Still it’s my favorite spot in my little village world. Since early February I’ve hoped for the right amount of heat, sun, and wind to make the spot a viable option for my morning breaks. That way I can get out of my dark room and into the sunlight. The swing also allows for a strange sort of privacy. Strange and surprising, because the swing itself is perched between two properties, and I usually receive quite a bit of attention whenever people catch sight of me in the village. From my swing, though, despite the fact that I can observe all the comings and goings of two households, and even though I can be observed by any of the house members, people mostly leave me alone. They probably leave me alone for many reasons, but I think they leave me alone for one reason in particular: I read on the swing, and someone reading in public is a unique sight in my village. Even though few people spend much time reading in the village, everyone seems to have the highest respect for the practice. So, as my thinking goes, when they see me perched on the swing reading, almost everyone simply nods and moves on with their business. There is, however, one exception: the elder son of my next-door neighbors. Probably about six, the kid loves talking to me, even if our conversations regularly produce more confusion than understanding. When he notices me he always creeps on over to the edge of his property between the house and the raised platform that covers their well and begins questioning me. There is a definite pattern to our conversations. First, he tries to comprehend why I don’t speak Russian even though I appear, for all intents and purposes, to be Russian. After I try and fail to convince him of my American-ness, he curtly moves the conversation on to describe the exploits of his friends. After a few minutes caught up in his own story and just as I’m beginning to get the hang of the story, he will again switch the topic back to me and my strange desire to read. And no matter how I try to convince him, he remains suspicious of this reading activity. I just can’t seem to convince him that staring at a book for a while is pleasant. Usually at this point his little silent brother wanders up or his mother begins to call him away. At first he resists these pressures from the outside world to end his spirited, rather one-sided discussion with me. Eventually he relents, though, and leave me in peace, amused and exhausted by the weight and surreality of our worlds’ meeting, but, more importantly, content because, for a few moments, I’ve met a fellow traveler in this perch between two worlds.